The boats, freed of their moorings, slowly spun away, heading downstream. Empty boats collided with those carrying terrified camp followers, most of which were barely half full.
Breyhard turned his bloody, mud-stained face back to the battle.
“Let’s kill some lizards,” he said to his lieutenants, managing a savage grin. “I never could stand the smell of them!”
He urged his wounded war-horse into the fray. Shoulder to shoulder, his retinue followed their commander.
Valaran closed the mirror-box. The battle was over. The leather case beside her yielded a sheet of foolscap, which she lay on the reading table before her. She dipped a stylus in ink, then, choosing her words with great care, put pen to paper:
Your Majesty, she wrote. Lord Breyhard is lost, with half his army. Many bakali have likewise been slain. The Dalti crossings are unguarded.
She stopped there, offering only the bare facts, not advice.
After sanding the short note, she folded it and sealed the edges with wax. One strike on a small gong summoned a waiting servant. She was an elderly woman, whose crimson livery hung loosely on her gaunt frame.
Valaran commanded her to take the note to the emperor, warning her to pass it to one of his minions and not to give it to him herself.
“Do you understand?” Valaran asked.
Blue eyes, yellowing with age, regarded the empress without any change of expression. The old woman nodded. She had served in the palace for decades and did indeed understand. Whoever gave this note to the emperor risked a beating-if not death.
Alone again, Valaran unrolled a map of central Ergoth. Eagle’s Ford was slightly less than twenty leagues from the capital. If General Crumont extricated himself quickly, his fifty-eight hordes would suffice to defend the city, but he would not have enough men to attack the bakali. The initiative would pass to the invaders.
Grim but satisfied, she allowed the map to curl shut.
“Grasp every circumstance, make use of friend and foe alike,” she whispered. The little-known saying of her ancestor Pakin Zan had become the maxim by which she lived her life.
Valaran’s desire to be rid of her cruel husband had increased tenfold with the birth of her son. Dalar had arrived a full year after Tol was exiled, but Ackal V had made the first few months of her pregnancy hellish, until he was absolutely convinced the child she carried was his own.
Valaran loved her son, though she’d never craved children as some women did, but Dalar also provided her with the means to attain the end she wanted. As a woman, she could never gain the support of the warlords for herself, but they would support her son, the rightful heir to the throne.
The arrival of the bakali had been a gift from the gods. She had resolved to use lizard-men, nomad barbarians, and any other opportunity that presented itself to discredit her husband and display his utter unfitness to rule. By grasping every circumstance, making use of friend and foe alike, she would be rid of Ackal V. Dalar would become emperor, and Valaran empress-regent.
Egrin and Kiya departed on their missions. The Dom-shu woman was not happy leaving Tol with “one and half elves,” as she put it. Tol did not share her fears. Zala lived by her word, the same as Tol. She would stand by the pact they had made. As for Tylocost, Tol’s command over him was based in part on his old victory, and in part on the Silvanesti’s own notion of honor.
“Trust their honor?” Kiya had said sarcastically, when he explained. “Not too much to ask!”
She rode off north, and Egrin headed east. Tol asked Corij to watch over both of his friends.
The makeshift camp outside the still-smoking rubble of Juramona grew and grew. Five days after Tol’s arrival, it held a thousand people, mostly former residents of the town. By the time the sun set on his eighth day there, almost four thousand had gathered. Fully half of this total were able-bodied men-farmers, craftsmen, shopkeepers, and the like.
One night, standing by a leaping bonfire, Tol addressed them. “Men of Ergoth! I stand here as one of you-landless, destitute, an exile in my own country. I have come back to fight the enemies who burned your homes and laid waste to your lands. If you will have me, I shall lead you.”
A few shouts of support rose from the crowd, but the response was hardly enthusiastic. One fellow cried, “We’re not warriors!”
“Anyone who takes up a sword or spear can fight! I was not born to arms, but I learned the art, and I can instruct you. Will you not fight to expel the invaders? Will you not take back your own country?”
This time the answering cries were more definite. Tol asked if anyone had fighting experience. Ten-score out of two thousand came forward. Most were former foot guards in the service of Marshal Baroth, Egrin’s replacement as Marshal of the Eastern Hundred. Baroth, a young crony of the emperor’s, had left Juramona to ride with Relfas’s army and had never been seen again. When the nomads attacked, the foot guards had defended the High House, but couldn’t hold out against the spreading flames from the burning city. The men had drifted back to the shattered town when they heard an imperial banner was raised. Tol was deeply glad to have them. His new army would require captains.
One man stepped forward. Completely bald, between thirty and forty years of age, he had the carriage of one who’d once borne arms. He said his name was Wilfik, and he’d been a foot soldier of the Juramona garrison.
“How can we fight the nomads?” he asked loudly. “We’ve no horses, and even if we did, we’re not Riders.”
“Soldiers on foot can stand up to horsemen,” Tol said. “I’ll show you how.”
A rag-clad townsman with burns on his hands and face said, “What if we don’t want to fight?”
“No one will abuse you for choosing not to fight. But mark this: any man who takes up arms for his country will never be anyone’s servant again. If we take back this land-” He grinned. “When we take back this land, it will be ours, and no one will be able to wrest it from us again!”
His meaning was clear. Since the warlords had failed to protect the Eastern Hundred, they would have no claim over it once the nomads were expelled. It was a revolutionary notion, and sent a thrill through the assembly. No more raiding nomads-and no haughty imperial overlords either!
“Juramona for all!” someone shouted, and “Free land! Free men!” cried another. More of the group joined in, and soon these shouts echoed through the makeshift camp.
After the assembly broke up, Tol talked with the men who’d claimed to have soldiering experience. He named each man a captain in the new corps, and chose Wilfik to command them. The bald former foot soldier seemed steady and sturdy, his no-nonsense manner just right for leading others.
Everyone knew Kiya and Egrin had ridden off to find help. Wilfik asked what support they might expect. Tol’s reply was blunt.
“I expect none. So should you.”
Dismay colored every face. Tol planted fists on hips and said, “Have no illusions, men! The imperial hordes have always fought to win battles, not to survive them. We won’t make that mistake. In a fight for our lives, we will outlast our foes. Nomads fight for glory and plunder; if they don’t get it fairly quick, I doubt they’ll stay around for a long war. It’s whose men are left standing that matters!” He clapped the nearest man on the shoulder. “If help arrives, we’ll rejoice! But don’t count on it.”
The men dispersed, leaving Tol with only one companion. Tylocost squatted nearby, in the shadows beyond the fading bonfire, idly toying with a stout stick. It was a most undignified posture for a former Silvanesti general. In the uncertain light, with his ungainly features, the elf resembled an enormous insect.